


Rewriting the Game

by Jemisard



Series: Rewriting the Game [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-16
Updated: 2010-11-16
Packaged: 2017-10-13 06:03:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/133792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jemisard/pseuds/Jemisard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Last time they played, Moriarty didn’t play the last round properly. He intends to correct this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rewriting the Game

They knew that Moriarty would be somewhere, waiting, licking his wounds after what happened at the swimming pool.

Sherlock knew better than the others. Moriarty was driven by the same skull crushing boredom that drove him; he would be powerless to resist the desire to match their wits against one another.

But four months had passed and there had been less than no activity attributed to Jim Moriarty. And frankly, it was driving Sherlock out of his mind.

Of course, he didn’t always have time to think about it. Just because Moriarty wasn’t apparent didn’t mean the rest of the criminals of London took a break. There were bizarre murders, impossible thefts and a curious kidnapping case which involved a pair of identical twins separated at birth.

It was that case which Sherlock was just wrapping up. The girls had been reunited and were both going home with the loving adoptive couple who had taken one of them in as a baby. The birth mother was being processed and it was, as John would’ve said if he was there, all happy endings.

Lestrade and Sherlock were discussing the likely jail term for the mother when Donovan knocked and looked in. “Got a package sir.” She looked to Sherlock. “For you, freak.”

Sherlock inhaled sharply. “No mailing details, just a plain package with my name, hand written in blue ink?”

Donovan frowned. “Yeah, actually...”

“It’s him!” He leaped from his seat, spinning in a circle. “Lestrade, surely this is apparent even to you, it’s _him_.”

“Moriarty,” Lestrade murmured.

“Moriarty,” Sherlock confirmed. “Donovan, where’s the package?”

She showed him to her desk where she had left the package on top of her in tray. It was small, simple; Sherlock had no doubt it was a new phone. He picked up the package, studying it carefully. No fingerprints in the tape, the same precise, neat handwriting as before. Common brown paper, available at any number of places.

He carefully opened it up and draw out the phone inside.

It wasn’t a pink cased iphone. It was grey, nearly a year old from the model, with scratches all around the charge point and an inscription on it.

‘Harry Watson, from Clara.’

The phone rang.

Sherlock closed his eyes as he hit to answer, lifting the phone to his ear. “Yes?”

There was a shaky exhalation. “Hello, Sherlock. It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

He admired again how steady John sounded, how calm he managed to stay as he spoke Moriarty’s words.

“I know, I know, not long enough and too long at once.”

“Stop it,” Sherlock snapped. “I know what you sound like, I know what you look like, this game is pointless. You could just speak for yourself.”

“But Sherlock. Last time we did this, I didn’t do it properly. No puzzle to solve, no mystery location. I even have him reading from a screen, just like the first ones.” John’s next inhale shook. “He’s my little toy, Sherlock, not yours. And I don’t play nice with my toys.”

“Then give me the puzzle, let me do this,” he ground out through clenched teeth.

“So eager to start. All right. You have eight hours. If you try to locate him and disarm the bomb,” his voice cracked briefly. “The bomb goes off. If you fail to solve the puzzle, the bomb goes off. If you or he break the rules-”

“The bomb goes off, I know how this works, Moriarty. I want to talk to John.”

“I’ll be generous, Sherlock, because I like you. He can say one sentence, give you one answer, so long as the question isn’t anything to do with the puzzle or where he is.”

He knew he should try and send a veiled message to John, but there was nothing he could say and nothing John could say without risking his life and whoever was around him. “Are you unhurt, John,” he asked gently.

“Just a nasty bump on the head from where I was knocked out,” John replied just as softly.

“Can I get to the problem solving now?”

“Eight hours,” John said in a whisper. “You have eight hours before John Watson explodes.”

The phone disconnected.

Sherlock lowered the phone, waiting for the message with whatever tiny clue he would get on it.

Lestrade and Donovan were watching him, silent.

“Is John okay,” Lestrade finally asked.

“Of course he’s not okay. He has a large explosive device strapped to him, designed to go off in eight hours and a sniper or two watching him to make sure he does nothing. Do you think he’s okay?” The message came through and he opened it up hurriedly.

There was just a photo. A single photo of a girl in a trainee nurse’s outfit. It looked like it was the identification photo off a security badge or the like.

Sherlock frowned. He had no idea who she was. He’d never seen her before...

Or had he?

He racked his mind for a connection. He really didn’t know her.

He held the phone out to Lestrade. “Do you know her?”

He looked it over, shaking his head. “She doesn’t look familiar.”

“She’s the clue. I need to know who she is before I can do anything!” He strode to the projector and plugged the phone in, swiftly bringing up the photo for the room to see. “Does anyone know who this woman is?!”

Officers and detectives looked, all starting to shake their heads.

Except Anderson. “I do. I think.”

Sherlock pounced, grabbing Anderson by his arms and shaking him. “Tell me about her, everything, every detail you can think of, where she works, who her family is, her hobbies, her friends-”

“Let go of me.” He struggled out of Sherlock’s grip. “Her name is Deborah... Deborah something. She was a nurse at St. Bart’s.”

“Was?”

“She involved in a hit and run. Her file should be on the system, but it wasn’t investigated up here. Nothing suspicious, no real clues.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Lestrade, I need her file, everything on it. Autopsy, incident report-”

“She’s not dead.”

That brought him up short. “What?”

“She’s not dead. She’s still at St Bart’s. As a patient.”

*~*~*

Sherlock stood to the side as the girl’s carer patiently kept trying to spoon the mush in the bowl into her mouth. “I knew her before the accident. It’s criminal, what they did to her. Such a bright girl, she was so kind and devoted to her work.”

Lestrade nodded. “I understand, we’re going to try to bring whoever did this to justice.”

They were waiting for the head nurse to come back with both Deborah Price’s work record and her patient record. The incident papers were already in Sherlock’s hands and he scanned them while half listening to the conversation.

“Did Deborah ever speak when she came into A&E?”

“Not really. She was unresponsive on scene when she was found by her sister. She was late coming home and her sister decided to walk to meet her along the path. Instead she found her on the side of the road and the car long gone.”

“And undoubtedly the ambulance obliterated most of the useful evidence for locating the car and driver,” Sherlock murmured. “It says here that she appeared to have tried to use her scarf to stem the blood flow.”

Lestrade looked to Sherlock. “And?”

“What was her GCS?”

“Her what?”

Sherlock sighed. “Glasgow Coma Scale. It’s a rough indicator of trauma level.”

“Her chart will say,” the carer added. “Is there anything else, gentlemen, only I need to get back to this.”

“Of course.” Lestrade stood and nodded to her.

Sherlock had spotted the nurse with the records and went there instead, grabbing the folders and flicking them open. “GCS of three when she came in, meaning... probably five at the highest, given that she’d been bleeding out for... thirty minutes. There was no way that woman was capable of bandaging her own head, or even attempting it. At most she might have tried to speak or move from the road, but not something abstract like tend her injuries.” He snapped the folders shut. “The driver stopped and then drove on. I need to speak to her family.” He walked out, not caring if Lestrade followed him or not.

He didn’t have the time to waste on Lestrade’s niceties. John’s life depended on it.

His hand drifted down to John’s phone in his pocket and then he made himself move on, hailing a cab and getting inside.

He read her file as they drove. She worked regular shifts, was good at her job. She presented at the hospital unconscious and with severe brain damage. Coma for three weeks, woke up unable to speak or recognise people around her with any clarity.

Realistically, there was little of help in these files. The incident report would be of more help. flesh out what had happened and what the police had missed.

He paid the cabbie, told him to wait because he wouldn’t be long and strode up to the house, banging on the door.

An older woman answered. She was tired, she didn’t sleep well and was stressed, she cleaned and kept house to compensate and keep her mind off it, the house smelt of cleaners and the vacuum cleaner was visible, easily accessible. Her hands were worn from chemicals and hard scrubbing. “Mrs Price, my name is Sherlock Holmes, I’m investigating the hit and run involving your daughter. Did you recognise the scarf that was found on her?”

“I... pardon?”

Slow response time, numbed with exhaustion and possibly medication.

“The scarf. Did you recognise it?”

“I... no. No, it must have been new. Who are you?”

“Sherlock Holmes.” He flashed one of Lestrade’s ids and put it back. “The police kept it for evidence?”

“Yes,” she stammered.

“Thank you for your time.” he turned and walked back down the path, his question answered. He pulled out his phone and called Lestrade.

“Where the hell are you?”

“Coming back, I need that incident report and the evidence bags delivered to St Bart’s, I have to examine it all. Do you still have the scarf?”

“The scarf?”

“Is everyone deaf today, yes, the bloody scarf! Do you have it?”

“Probably in the evidence bag.”

“It’s the driver’s.”

“What?”

“Why does everyone keep ‘what’ing at me? It was the driver’s. The driver stopped and made some attempt at assistance before driving off again. Given the amateur attempt, they didn’t know what they were doing and there’s the possibility they were intoxicated with something, which was why they didn’t stay on the scene and didn’t call emergency services.” He took a steadying breath. “The scarf will lead us to the driver and that will lead us to John.”

*~*~*

The scarf was clearly a woman’s article. It was a pashmina scarf, suitable to be worn as a scarf or shawl. The soft silk/wool blend was patterned dark paisley over a rich, cool toned purple and the whole thing was soaked with old, dried blood.

Smells still clung to the folds though. Beyond the blood and antiseptic that had been transferred from Deborah. Floral, maybe rose and iris. Something almost fruity, like apple. It was complex. It was probably a perfume, a fairly expensive one from the complexity of the scent. A woman with expensive tastes who had gone drink driving.

The was half the middle class of England. He sank back, turning away from the table and pacing around the room, trying to think of other small hints that might still survive in the evidence bags.

Hair. DNA would take too long, but maybe colour, length, if it was dyed. Traces of make up, if any.

He sat down with the scarf again, holding it up and slowly teasing out the crumpling, scanning the surface for anything that might give a hint. It was slow work, using water to wet the blood to let the cloth unfold, brushing over the surface for hints of hair wrapped in it, concealed by gore.

He found a lot of hair in one area, undoubtedly where it had been held to Deborah’s head. He put each strand aside to check though. Finally he found other strands, shorter, single, solitary ones. He put those aside too, soaking in water to try and remove the blood from them.

A smudge of lipstick on one edge was coloured a mid brown with a pink tint. The scarf was distorted from having been worn and pulled carelessly, the weave disturbed.

It was expensive, but not particularly cared for. Not valued. Could explain why it was left behind.

Clues weren’t enough. He had facts, he had plenty of facts, but he lacked the context he needed.

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

Sherlock looked to Molly, peeking in through the door. “No, just go- Actually. Maybe.”

She perked up eagerly.

“Smell that scarf.”

She didn’t argue, just went over and inhaled the scent. “Chanel no. nineteen.”

His head snapped around. “You know it?”

“It’s... my mother’s favourite perfume,” she admitted.

He spun on his chair, leaping off and grabbing a marker, scribbling on the nearest surface, the dividing glass of this lab and the next. “Female, she has expensive taste, the shawl is a silk blend, well made, good weave, but not worth hanging on to in the face of the crime scene. She wears Chanel perfume, maybe she’s out on a date, she wants to be her best, good perfume, good, high pigment lipstick. She has a few drinks while she’s out, possibly nerves or habit. Hair!” He skidded back to the microscope, taking out several of the hairs and laying them on slides, snapping it into place and focusing.

Dark blond or light brown. Greying, but covering it. “She refuses to accept she’s greying, covers it up. The scarf is an older woman’s look, she’s probably in her late thirties at the youngest, though she might be younger.”

Molly was staring at him with that dumb, awestruck look..

“Are you going to contribute anything else to my deductions,” he snapped.

She scuttled out of the room.

The silence was empty, hollow. Even when he was quiet, John brought a presence to the room.

He had used four of his hours. He had four hours left and he had no idea where to start looking for this woman. She could be anyone.

Grabbing his coat, he went outside, to walk and move, to let himself think. He didn’t have any nicotine patches so he stopped and bought cigarettes and matches and lit up in the hospital car park, coughing slightly at the burn of smoke.

He was missing something. He was missing something vital.

Last time, all the crimes were connected to Moriarty. He had had enough information to follow leads. Shoes with evidence connecting back to that first shared case. Someone famous, lots of information. Intentional, malicious acts.

This wasn’t like that. This was stupidity. The police had double checked for anyone who might want her dead.

He’d have to check again. Make sure they hadn’t missed anyone.

He smoked the cigarette faster than he would’ve liked, took a second one the same way and headed back inside to the lab and his files.

*~*~*

Ninety precious minutes were lost double checking if anyone had a reason to want Deborah Price dead.

He used police resources, he worked as fast as he could but there was _nothing_ to suggest this was anything but a hit and run by a potentially drunk driver.

John only had two and a half hours left. Two and a half hours before Moriarty would push the button and John would be blasted apart. He could picture it vividly, if the explosives were rigged the same way as before, it would compress and shatter John’s body and chest, the force tearing apart most of his head and trunk, thighs and upper arms. His hands and feet may survive somewhat intact but it was unlikely he would be identifiable by anything short of DNA testing of bloody chunks of once human flesh.

He lit a new cigarette off the old one and stubbed the old one out on the side of a bin. He had been to bomb sites before, but it hadn’t been anyone he knew, someone he had spoken to, touched, _lived with_.

It hadn’t been John’s bloody chunks of once human flesh.

He growled at himself. Caring didn’t help. It was pointless. He pulled out his own phone, then John’s. He assumed it was John’s, but he hadn’t actually double checked.

He opened the messages box. Nine from his own number, he had sent them while waiting for Lestrade to say that the case was officially wrapped up. Several from Harry, all with attachments with inane subjects like ‘At the gala’ and ‘New girlfriend’ and ‘My house’.

He found himself flicking down to the first one and opening it.

A photo of Harry at some event, wearing a business suit and toasting the camera, her hair mussed and roots newly touched up.

He opened another. Harry’s house, about forty minutes drive from where he sat now. And she still never managed to make it over to visit her brother.

He puffed on his cigarette, letting it hang loosely in his fingers as he blew smoke out into the night air and opened the more.

All photos of Harry. With her new girlfriend, the one she met several months back and wasn’t sick of her drinking yet. The one who wore brown lipstick with a tint of pink.

He went back through the old message, to find something dating back four months or more, searching them one by one until he saw it.

Harry. Wearing a pashmina scarf of dark, cool purple with a paisley print.

He didn’t even pause to regret that he was about to imprison John’s sister. Because John would be alive to visit her in prison. “Lestarde!” He took off into the building, leaving his cigarette smoking on the pavement as he ran, fingers fumbling with the phone, to get connected to the net and post the answer up on his blog. “I’ve got it, I’ve bloody well _got it_!”

He didn’t even wait for the lift, taking the stairs three at a time until he skidded into the office, waving John’s phone and dropping it in front of Lestrade, the photo still up. “I found her. Your driver.”

Lestrade looked at the image as Sherlock typed the entry into his blog.

 _‘Deborah Price, hit by Harriet Watson who was drinking driving.’_

He hit post, looking to Lestrade with a brilliant smile. “I solved it.”

The phone rang.

He answered fast. “I solved it.”

“Yes, you did, Sherlock,” John said calmly. “I’m reading your message now but I want you to say it. Tell me how clever you are, Sherlock, what the crime was and who committed it. Details please.”

“Have you stopped the timer,” Sherlock demanded.

“Yes, the timer’s stopped. But I want to hear it. I want you tell John what you found, you clever little monkey.” Moriarty’s words in John’s voice didn’t just sound wrong, it _felt_ wrong.

And he realised what Moriarty was making him do. “You... bastard,” he ground out.

“Tell him, Sherlock. You know what happens if you don’t play along.” John’s confusion was open in his voice now, even more than the fear.

“Deborah Price was hit by a drunk driver and left with permanent brain damage,” Sherlock said slowly. And then stopped.

“The driver. Name the driver.”

He didn’t want to. He had to. “Harriet Watson,” he whispered.

There was silence for a long moment.

“Y-you should see his face,” John stuttered out, voice pained. Like he was forcing himself not to cry. “This- this has been a fun game, Sherlock.”

“Where is he? I won, I named the driver, now tell me where he is.”

“Sherlock... I made you a promise at the pool. Remember? I said I was going to burn your heart out. And I am. This is the kicker, you’ll like this twist. I’m going to give you exactly sixty seconds, exactly, during which time John can say anything he wants to.

“Then, I’m going to blow him up anyway.”

“NO!” Sherlock was on his feet, hand slamming the desk. “No, that’s not how the game works, Moriarty, I solve the puzzle and you give him back to me in one piece!”

“Sherlock,” John said quietly.

“No!”

“Sherlock, be quiet,” John said, his voice shaking. “I’ve only got fifty one seconds. Less. I’m not spending them with you hurling abuse at him.”

“Tell me where you are. Tell me, we’ll...”

“Sherlock. It’s not your fault. You did what you had to, catching.... catching Harry. If she hit that girl, she needs to face the law. I don’t blame you.”

“John.” He held the phone, cradling it to his ear.

“This isn’t your fault either. Him being too gutless to finish me off himself, refusing to set me free, it’s not your fault. Promise me you’ll get him, Sherlock. Don’t let him keep killing.” His voice cracked with a sob. “No one else can. Get him for me.”

“No, no, John, I can’t... I can’t do this. This is.. I care.” The words were barely a whisper. “I _care_.”

“That’s why you’ll get him...” Breath. “I care too, Sherlock.”

There was a crack and the line went dead.

“John?!” He knew he wasn’t there and he couldn’t stop himself. “John?!”

The whole incidents’ room was silent, watching as Sherlock clung to the phone and kept whispering John’s name over and over.

Phones started ringing. Donovan was shaken to action, grabbing one and listening to the other end before hanging up. “Sir...?”

Lestrade blinked and looked up at her.

“An explosion has been reported... under 221b Baker street.”

Horrific understanding trickled into Sherlock’s mind. John had been in the basement apartment, 221c. He’d been _right there_ the entire time, at home and now it was all gone.

Photos. Clothes. Papers. Laptops. Everything John owned was in that apartment and Moriarty had taken even the memories of him in that one action.

Home is where the heart is.

With a shaking hand, he hit to listen to John’s voice bank message.

 _“You’ve reached John Watson. I can’t answer the phone right now, probably because Sherlock has decided to take us on a mad chase after serial killers. I’ll call you back once they’re caught.”_

His breath caught and he sank down, hugging the phone to his chest, silent and still.

 

Ending One Complete.  
It could have happened this way...

**Author's Note:**

> Written for: http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/2262.html?thread=4346070#t4346070


End file.
